Saying Goodbye
by Janine Adams

My sweet, eight-year-old standard poodle Scout lost her battle with cancer on October 23. Until the last week of her life, she lived pain-free with a great zest for life.

Saying goodbye to her was difficult, but she'd made it clear that it was time for her to go. She gave us the gift of not questioning whether the decision to euthanize was the right one. In the day or two prior to her passing, I'd found myself hoping she'd die on her own, perhaps in her sleep. That seemed the most natural way to go; I held it up as the ideal. Yet I found that I was actually glad for the experience of having her euthanized.

When we brought her to the vet's office for the last time, she was experiencing pain in her head, perhaps because the cancer had metastasized to her brain. As a result, we weren't able to hug and kiss her sweet face like we'd done every day for the last five and a half years. But when our vet gave her a shot of sedative to put her into a deep sleep before giving her the final injection, she was completely free of pain. We could hug and kiss her and stroke her soft fur. Her body was relaxed as it hadn't been, even in sleep, for the last week. We weren't rushed as we said our goodbyes. Her death was pain-free, administered by a vet who loved her. She was surrounded by love and compassion; her mom and dad were by her side. It was the last favor we could do for her, and-painful though it might have been for us-it was least we could do for her.

Scout defied the specialists' predictions. She outlived by a month an oncologist's two-to-six-month prognosis without chemotherapy. When her tumor recurred three months after it was first removed, a surgeon told us that surgical removal was pointless-the aggressive cancer would be back by the time she'd recovered from the surgery. At the beginning of July, he gave her two days to two months. She lived six weeks after those two months were up.

On August 23 we ignored that surgeon's warning and opened her up again to remove her spleen and five large tumors (one weighed five pounds!). Scout didn't let a little abdominal surgery get her down. She refused to spend the night at the hospital and within three days of the surgery chased a cat at full speed. That surgery bought us a month and three weeks with her. That may not sound like much, but it was precious time. Until that last week, she was her usual feisty self, living life to its fullest and making sure we took plenty of time for snuggling. In a way, time slowed down for us, since every day was a precious opportunity to be with her.

We had a housewarming party three days before Scout died, on a Saturday. Scout was there, in the thick of it. She was droopy, but she interacted with our guests and seemed to have a good time. It was a wonderful opportunity for her friends to say goodbye to her.

The next morning she felt considerably worse and we knew that the end of was near. (I think she'd been holding on for the party.) That Sunday we stayed near her as she slept all day. We tried to persuade her to eat, though all she'd take was some baby food, licked from a syringe. But that evening, she gave us a great gift. She made it clear that she wanted to go along on our evening walk with Kramer. She mustered all her energy for a great, fun, almost-normal walk. She trotted, she barked at her enemy, she ate treats. I'm sure it wasn't easy and I'm sure she did it for us.

We treated Scout's cancer holistically-fed her excellent, home-prepared meals, strengthened her immune system with supplements, and fought the cancer by inhibiting growth of new blood vessels, as well as by other measures. These gentle supplements didn't make her feel ill. I have no regrets about how we treated her, from the supplements to the surgeries to our final decision to end her life. Our brave girl walked into the vet's office under her own steam. She left us with a sense of peace.

What more could we ask for? Only one thing: more time together.

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